Page 7 of Screwed
“You’re welcome.” He shifted back to his side of the vehicle and started the engine.
He kept an eye on her as he drove, hoping like hell she wasn’t going to puke in his truck. He wasn’t squeamish about much, but vomit was one thing that got to him. That time in college when one of his frat buddies had hurled all over the living room floor…yeah, he’d had to run to the bathroom and upchuck, too.
Callie went quiet, and moments later a sideways glance told him she’d dozed off. As he drove, he took advantage of her slumber to study her, narrowly avoiding a rear-end collision at one point—her softly parted lips, her long eyelashes, the skirt of her dress riding up on her smooth thighs.
Luckily, they made it to her house in the Memorial neighborhood without crashing his truck. He pulled into the driveway and parked in front of the big two-story house with bay windows, high steps leading to an arched front door topped with a circular window. The fixture over the front door shed warm light onto the landing.
“Hey, darlin’, we’re home.” He reached over and set his hand on her slender shoulder to give her a gentle shake.
She lifted her head and blinked at him, hair hanging in her face. “Home?”
“Yeah.” He jumped out and rounded the vehicle to open her door. As she slid out, her dress—short enough to begin with—rode even higher on her legs. She slipped her arm through his, and he led her up the steps, where she dug around in her little purse, found her house key, and handed it to him to open the door.
She slumped against the wall and closed her eyes. “God, I just want to go to bed.”
“Nearly there.” He pushed open the door and followed her in. Once more, she stumbled, bumping against the table in the foyer, setting a big vase of flowers wobbling. “Jesus.”
“Damn.” She heaved a sigh. “I’m such an idiot.”
“No, you’re not. Come on. I’ll help you upstairs. Wait. Sit down.” He gently pushed her to sit on the second step from the bottom and crouched in front of her. He eased her shoes off and tossed them aside. “There.” Climbing the polished hardwood of the stairs in those heels, in that state, was going to get her neck broken. He lifted her back to her feet and steadied her, then turned her and held her as she slowly climbed the steps.
He followed her into the big master bedroom. The room where she used to sleep with Beau. “You okay?”
“Of course I’m okay.” She yawned. “Thank you for bringing me home.” She walked over to the bed and did a face-plant. The dress was high enough that he could just see the bottom curve of her ass cheeks.
He swallowed and looked away. “Hang on, darlin’.” He jogged back downstairs to her kitchen. He knew which cupboard the glasses were in after years of helping himself to beers or tea from the fridge. He also knew where the ibuprofen was. He carried two tablets and a big glass of water upstairs.
He set the glass down and nudged her, still prone on the bed. “Hey, Callie. Take these before you pass out.”
She lifted her head. “What?”
“Sit up.”
She groaned, rolled over, and pushed up. She swallowed the pills and handed the glass back to him.
“Drink it all.”
She huffed, then drank. “There.”
“Okay.” He took the empty glass and eyed her. “Uh…you gonna sleep in your clothes?”
“I’ll change in a few minutes.”
“Okay.” He still hesitated. “You sure you’re okay?”
“The room’s spinning a little.”
He sighed. “Okay. Get some sleep.”
He paused at the door and looked back at her in the dark room. Heat filled his belly, and his forehead furrowed. She was out again, in her black lace dress, all her shiny brown hair spread around her head, arms up and under her pillow. Well, sleeping in your clothes wasn’t the worst thing you could do. He just hoped she wasn’t going to be sick. He left the door ajar and headed back downstairs, fighting the unreasonable urge to stay and make sure she was okay.
She was an adult, twenty-six years old, a divorced woman who’d just spent months traveling the world alone. She was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Except when she found a cockroach in her mud room. Or when her garage door opener broke and she couldn’t get her car out of her garage. Or when her toilet wouldn’t stop running.
He had to leave her alone. He had to stay the fuck away from her.
He let himself out of her house, locking the door behind him. As he drove to his condo not far away, he reflected on the tears he’d seen when he’d spotted her out on the patio, looking lower than a gopher hole. She’d tried to deny it, but her sadness yanked at something inside him.
He gripped the steering wheel. He was still so fucking pissed off at Beau for what he’d done to Callie. Yes, he and Beau were friends. Yes, they were business partners. Cash had been able to bury that anger in order to keep going with their lives, but things had changed between him and Beau.
